


Breakfast at Joly's

by Akallabeth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Fluff, Magnets, Multi, even hypochondriacs get colds occassionally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:36:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akallabeth/pseuds/Akallabeth
Summary: Fluffy slice of life with Joly and Lesgle.Background JBM, but OTP is Joly/magnets.





	Breakfast at Joly's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsondust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsondust/gifts).



Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, Lesgle noticed the sound of falling rain.  
Such a thing should not come as a surprise. In the winter, it rains in Paris. Such a universal rule is only altered under the more extraordinary of circumstances--to wit, Lesgle alias Laigle alias Bossuet procuring a working umbrella and having it about his person.

Bahorel once suggested that they all take up a fund to keep Lesgle supplied with umbrellas, in order to ensure good weather. He did not get into a shouting match with Combeferre about causality, but only because everyone was laughing too hard at Courfeyrac's explanation of just how many umbrellas this would entail, and precisely how each would meet its demise.

Lesgle tried to remember the whereabouts of his overcoat—had it been redeemed from the pawn-broker this month? He had lent it to Prouvaire one evening (the poet was heading toward the Madeleine cemetery to commune with revolutionary specters, and thus had greater need than Lesgle, who was heading home to a warm bed), but couldn't recall if that was before or after his last minor financial crisis.

This pleasant train of thought was interrupted by several loud snuffles, and a string of syllables which Lesles translated as 'you shouldn't be here.' After the better part of four years living together—and time spent with Joly definitely counted as 'better' than time without Joly, in Lesgle's humble opinion—he had developed a knack for understanding speech obstructed by all variety of disease-resisting scarves, chemically-impregnated handkerchiefs, improbable magnetic experiments, and even by the occasional headcold.

“My good fellow, I'm in no more danger of bad air here than anywhere else in the room. And the trundle bed would surely be dangerously deficient of warm company.”

Instead of an argument about the deleterious effects of rainstorms on the constitution and the hazards of miasmas, however, Lesgle's words were met with a yawn, and his best friend rolling over rest his head on Lesgle's chest.

While this was generally a welcome development, the congested snores which resumed as Joly dozed off only served to fully wake his companion. Sleep banished, Lesgle settled back to listen to the rainfall, and idly fidget with the Joly's red flannel nightcap.

**

After careful meditation on the matter, Lesgle had reached the conclusions that a warm, companionable bed was the best place from which to appreciate rain storms. Obviously, the best companion for such purposes was Joly—prone to be affectionate in repose, and less agitated by storms asleep than awake. In a truly ideal situation, Musichetta would be curled up on his other side, and no one would be dripping mucus on his nightshirt, but Lesgle was quite practiced at finding contentment in less than ideal situations. A warm Joly on the arm is worth two sitting across the table. Although two Jolys would be very lively, and probably have excellent conversation—unless they started frightening eachother about which diseases they might have...

Lesgle was debating with himself about whether Musichetta would leave him for the hypothetical second Joly (and whether he could negotiate with her for custody of one of them), when the bells of Saint-Severin struck eight, waking the singular Joly, who disentangled himself to search for additional handkerchiefs. He mumbled something through the congestion, which Lesgle translated to “Need to move the bed.” 

“Not before you've had breakfast.” 

Joly had evidently found his other stash of handkerchiefs (shoved in the watch pocket hanging from the headboard), and conceded the point. “The Musain?”  
“Not in this weather. I can bring back food. Do you think the portress--”  
“--probably has soup”, Joly finished. He sneezed again, but continued in a clearer voice. “But she's still upset with you about the cats.”

A crash of thunder interrupted their conversation, naturally followed by Joly stopping to check his pulse. And, in a departure from normal custom, seizing Lesgle' wrist to repeat the operation. 

“Do I have a heart?”  
“You have a pulse. The two tend to be correlated.”  
“Would Combeferre agree?”  
Joly considered for a moment. “Absent contrary evidence, probably. But anyone who's met you can see you have a heart.” 

At that, Lesgle got up and moved to the stove. He would have built the fire up anyway, but he would not be Lesgle/Laigle if he didn't take the opportunity to say:  
“And yet, at the moment a _corde_ might be more useful than a _coeur_.”

Joly's laugh turned into a cough, but he got up anyway, and started pulling out warm clothing for both of them. “I'll ask the portress about soup while you're out.”

“Have you seen my overcoat?”

“You lent it to Jehan last time we played dominoes. Take mine. There's money in the desk--.” Joly cut off, wincing at a lightning flash and another crash of thunder (and another check of their pulses). 

In such convenient proximity, Lesgle ventured a quick kiss to Joly's forehead, and was rewarded with a smile.

**  
In a fine coat and shabby trousers, Lesgle found himself mistaken for a thief only once, and a poet twice. He was also splashed by a racing carriage on three separate occasions and shoved into a water-filled pothole once—but that counted as fortunate, since it baffled the gamin who was attempting to pick his pocket. With so few incidents, Lesgle thus made good time procuring provisions, and (unintentionally) Graintaire.

Joly's fourth-floor rooms were tolerably warm by time they arrived. Jolly himself—now fully dressed in two waistcoats, thick trousers, a banyan, smoking cap, carpet slippers and with a warm muffler around his neck—was crawling around the floor of the main room, positioning magnets.

“I bought some more licorice for your cough”, Lesgle announced, “and procured company. Grantaire, could you start heating the wine?”

“On the fire”, Joly specified, not looking up his work. He had spread a piece of writing paper over the most recent magnet, and was now sprinkling black powder over it. “It's good to see you, Grantaire, for all that the air's dreadful today—Bossuet, you are changing into dry clothes, yes?--the mulling cone's next to the stove.”

Lesgle ducked back into the main room, in his shirtsleeves, but with dry trousers and a flannel waistcoat (as Joly would undoubtedly insist, flannel being ideal to preserve the chest again cold). His bald head was covered by his nightcap, but perched at a jaunty angle.  
“You could have informed me of the dress-code”, Grantaire melodramatically sighed from his station by the fire. “I have no informal headgear to wear, and neglected to bring any ferrous metals. Your invitations are woefully lacking in detail, Laigle de Meaux.”

“Fear not, my good man, I have found the ideal piece of haberdashery for you.” And with that, Lesgle dropped a flimsy lawn nightcap on Grantaire's unruly curls.

“Millinery, more like”, added Joly, looking up his magnets and the diagrams he was drawing. “You're like a brother to me, Grantaire, but I fear Musichetta wears that better that you do.”

“I am devastated!” Grantaire threw his hand out dramatically, barely splashing any hot wine on Lesgle's trouser leg. “After all this time, you think your mistress is prettier than me.”

“Yes, I do. I'd be somewhat concerned if I didn't, after all.” 

“Perhaps we should change the topic before this conversation gets all of us murdered by the most spirited woman in Paris?,” Lesgle suggested. “I believe our current agenda is bread, cheese, soup, hot wine, and rearranging the furniture.”

Grantaire made a mock toast at the word wine, and started serving up the repast. Joly added a few more arcing lines to his diagram, between sneezes.

“I don't think we'll need to move any furniture for now. I've been testing various areas of the room, and all the excessive electric fluid has not warped the local magnetic fields noticeably. Combeferre lent me Farraday's paper on electricity's effects on magnetic fields--” Joly's excitement at scientific discovery, alas, was not able to overcome to his cold, and brought on a fresh fit of coughs.

Lesgle more-or-less picked up Joly at this point, and settled him on the rocking chair next to the stove. Grantaire handed him a cup of wine. 

“In that case, I propose cards as a replacement for redecorating,” Grantaire suggested. They all agreed. 

By time the sun had set, they had all further agreed that attempting to take everyone's pulses after each thunderclap did not constitute cheating, provided that Joly let them set down their cards first.

The verdict was still two-to-one, however, on whether Grantaire or Musichetta wore the lawn nightcap prettier.

**Author's Note:**

> I love reading Joly and Bossuet, and hope with practice to give them the puns they deserve. Ideally in French/Latin, not English/questionable French.
> 
> I've read a few fics which refer to Lesgle having some sort of 'noodle incident' involving cats. Assume any and all of them apply.


End file.
